


Just a man and his dog (who is not actually a dog, but a wolf, who is not actually a wolf, but a werewolf)

by ElisAttack



Category: Fallout 4, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fallout, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, BAMF Stiles, Fallout 4 AU, M/M, Wolf Derek, and yet it's still cracky as heck, stiles suffers from ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7064386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I never liked robots.</i>  Derek says.</p><p>"You're a dog, the only thing you like is your own butt." Stiles replies.</p><p>Or the one where Derek is a telepathic werewolf pretending to be an actual wolf, and Stiles is a hopeless wanderer who just woke from a long, cryogenically induced nap, to find the world not as he left it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a man and his dog (who is not actually a dog, but a wolf, who is not actually a wolf, but a werewolf)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look at that, Elis wrote another apocalyptic fic. Typical.
> 
> !!!! Just FYI, If I ever end up updating this it won't be for a looooooong time, so read at your own discretion.

Stiles fans himself desperately.  He knows he's over heating himself by moving, but he can't help it.

It's fucking hot.

The breeze, no matter how meagre, is the only relief for miles around.  It's midday, and the roaring sun is at its utmost. The last time Stiles saw the sun, it wasn't this red, or large.  He's never experienced a heat wave like this before, and he's a California boy, born and bred.  

He curses, whispering furiously up at the sky, but the hot sun only shines more through gaping holes in the gas station's roof.  It focuses the boiling temperatures, and makes a mockery of his frustration.   At least there's some shade, little may it be.  The exposed earth outside is scorched and bone dry.  

Stiles wipes away a drop of sweat from his forehead, and sucks the salty liquid off his fingers.  At this rate, he'll have to wait until the sun sets before he can get moving again, lest he collapse from heat stroke.  He shudders, thinking about the mutated mole rats he'll have to contend with at night.  Still, he would take their pointy teeth and beady eyes over heat stroke any day. That's the thing about surviving a war: Stiles knows there will always be something out there trying to kill him.  Whether it be other people, the environment, or the animals calling it home.

If there's one thing he took from that _fucking_ war, it's that it's easier to shoot a gun into a physical threat, than it is to beg the environment to stop killing him.

So he waits for the sun to set.  A pistol strapped to his thigh, a sawed-off on his back as he nurses a nuka cola he pries from an ancient vending machine.  The drink is lukewarm but surprisingly still carbonated, considering it's over two hundred years old.  

Just like him.

Well, Stiles wouldn't necessarily say he's carbonated or very sweet.  Although, before the war, he used to be downright bubbly. Yet another thing it took from him. Stiles used to feel safe, happy even, in his skin.  Now he never feels safe, not unless he's got at least five weapons on him at once, and holds the highest vantage point in the area.

The doctors say he left the war with PTSD, but what do they know? They're all dead anyway.

Back in another lifetime Stiles was a veteran who returned home a hero, even though he didn't feel like one.  He had moved back in with his parents, unable to look after himself, unable to work, unable to really function.  His parents had to pay for his counselling because the government didn't want to.  The only reward he received for eight long years of service was three spots in a nuclear fallout shelter.

Stiles never imagined he would need it, believing no one would be evil enough to kill millions with a flick of a switch.  And he most definitely never imagined he would wake up two hundred years in the future after being cryogenically frozen without his permission. Perks of being in the military.  

He thought the shelter was there for people to wait out the fallout, until the radiation levels lowered to safe enough levels.  A few months, maybe a year or two at most.  Not over three lifetimes.

Sometimes when he looks out into the desolate wasteland, Stiles imagines he'd rather be dead, burnt up with all the other poor souls who didn't get to a shelter in time.  It might be better than this hell.  

He thinks of his mom, and sighs heavily.  She didn't wake from her pod.  Something must have gone wrong with the mechanics, and her vital signs were nonexistent when he checked the machines.  

Someone, Stiles doesn't know who, defrosted all the pods in the shelter. He was the only one to make it out alive.  It's ridiculous to even think about.  His mom survived a nuclear fallout, spent two hundred years in peaceful slumber, only to die when her life support pod failed to wake her properly.  Stiles wishes he could erase the expression of terror she died wearing, but he imagines it's just another fucked up thing to contribute to his PTSD.

Stiles rubs his forehead, thinking about his dad.  His pod was empty, with signs of struggle scratched into the cushioning and plastic.  Someone broke into the pod, woke his dad, and then stole him away, leaving Stiles all alone in a place he never imagined he would see.

The shiny, nuclear wasteland future.  

Wonderful.

Stiles sips from the cola and ponders on what he's supposed to do.  He could pick a direction and start walking, but who knows who or what he'll find.  If he'll even find anyone, let alone his dad.  For all he knows, Stiles could be the only living human left in a landscape of mutant mole rats.

Stiles hangs his head between his legs in defeat.

Only to startle when he feels a wet tongue lap at his dusty forehead.  Before he even know it, he has his pistol whipped and cocked, pointing right in the face of the cutest dog he's ever seen in his life.  The dog ignores the dangerous weapon at his snout, and continues to lather wet kisses all over Stiles' face without a care in the world.

Stiles make a face of horrible disgust, and shoves the dog away. Scrambling to his feet, he puts some distance between the dog and himself, keeping his gun steadily aimed between the dog's eyes.  He's not letting his guard down, not even a little.

The bite from the first mole rat that popped out of nowhere and attempted to have him for dinner still itches.

He's calm and collected as he assesses the situation.  The dog sits on his heels.  Looking at Stiles with his lead tilted slightly to the side, mouth hanging open and panting from the midday heat.  The dog is looking at Stiles like he hung the fucking moon, and please excuse him if it freaks him out just a little bit.

Without taking his eye off the dog, Stiles eyes a nearby wrench.  He quickly grabs it and flings it at the dog's head, trying to scare him away.  The dog simply ducks, and goes back to staring at him.  Stiles scowls at his persistence.

"Fuck off."  He hisses under his breath, but the dog just chuffs lightly like he's amused by Stiles' frustration.  He bends his head and starts lapping at Stiles' spilled cola.  Stiles takes his distraction as a sign that it's time for him to get the fuck out of dodge before the dog decides to snack on him next.  He looks like a normal, pre-fallout dog, albeit a bit bigger than a regular one, but Stiles is not taking any chances.

He sneakily starts backing away, towards the gas station door, already missing the shelter, but he's not cold-hearted enough to shoot a dog that hasn't attacked him. Besides, it would be a waste of bullets.

He's out in the unsheltered open when he feels the ground tremor beneath his feet, and for the millionth time today, Stiles curses his horrible luck.

A mole rat bursts from the ground right at his feet.  Stiles swears up a shitstorm and pulls out his pistol as the rat starts squealing.  It launches itself at Stiles, going straight for his neck.  Stiles gets a shot in, before he's quickly falling back on his ass, right as another rat pops up from the dirt, hissing and screeching.  

Stiles is trying to avoid wasting ammo, he only has a few clips left, but it's difficult when the rats keep going for his soft bits.  They're fast and so easy to miss.  Stiles resorts to kicking them with his boots, hoping to at least rattle their little brains around in their skulls enough to get a shot in.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to worry about wasting bullets for long. The dog comes soaring out of nowhere, flying right over Stiles' head, and latches on to the neck of the largest mole rat, ripping out its throat with single minded purpose.  The second mole rat is similarly dispatched and the dog growls at the others, showing them his impressive teeth.  The remaining rats squeal horribly and disappear back into the holes they popped out of.

Stiles sits on the dusty ground and stares at the dog as he licks his chops of blood without a care in the world.  Eventually the dog looks up, quirking a brow at Stiles.  Suddenly it's like Stiles is hearing things now because a voice in his head asks, _You think you could do better?_

Stiles is a gentlemen.  He most definitely does not give the dog the finger.  Nor does he tell the dog exactly where he can shove it.  Although, he will gladly admit to dusting himself off and rising to his feet before walking off to find some dried out kindle.  It seems him and his brand new sidekick will be having mutant mole rat for dinner.

The disembodied voice seemingly has to contribute his own two cents, _Finally the stubborn pup gets off his ass_.

Okay, so Stiles does give the dog the finger, but that's only because the voice, his brain has subconsciously given the dog, is a dick.

***

The sun is setting by the time they leave the gas station behind.  They're following a stream, and Stiles can practically smell the radiation emanating off it.  He's never smelt anything like it before.  The air is all ozone and sharp metal, when before it was fresh and clean.  The world is so different, and not in a good way.

The dog runs in front, sniffing the air and investigating their surroundings.  Eventually, the dog finds an old rust bucket of a car, and barks at the vehicle.  He jumps, paws thumping against the closed door, trying to get inside.  Stiles ignores him, walking on past.  He has no time to see what fresh hell the dog has dug up this time.  Knowing his luck, it'll probably be another nest of mole rats.

 _Idiot, come here_.  The voice in his head says, and Stiles clenches his teeth.  

After he returned from the war, his psychologist told him to ignore the voices, and for once, he's going to listen to her.  Even though she's long dead, that one bit of advice she left him seems reasonable.  

The dog huffs, obviously annoyed.   _There is a Pip-Boy in the back seat of this car.  If you don't grab it, I will bite you_.

Stiles sighs heavily, "I'd like to see you try."  He snarks.  Yeah, he realizes he's talking back to the dog when he shouldn't be, but the voice in his head is the only noise to be heard for miles around.  He can't be blamed if he wants a little company to soothe the loneliness.

The dog snarls.   _Don't test me pup.  Now come here and get the Pip-Boy, it has maps, a radio.  It will help you.  What's the worst that could happen?_

"I could get eaten alive by mole rats."  Stiles grumbles under his breath, glaring at the dog, but he just stares back with a blanket expression.  Finally, after the longest staring session in history, Stiles sighs. He gives in and walks over to the car. He can almost picture his psychologist shaking her head in shame.

The dog rolls his eyes _.  Mole rats, he says, wait until he sees the deathclaws_.

Oh great, the voice is sarcastic, just what he needs.

"I don't want to know what a _deathclaw_ is, nor do I want to know if that name is well deserved." Stiles grips his pistol and yanks open the car door.  He stops and stares.  

There's a fucking Pip-Boy sitting on the seat like his mind magically conjured it up.  Stiles rubs his eyes, but it's still there.  It's one thing for the voice to spout all kinds of bullshit at him.  It's quite thing for that bullshit to become reality.

Stiles picks up the Pip-Boy, still not believing what he is seeing, and straps it to his wrist.  He fiddles with the dials of the navigational tool, until it gets a steady satellite signal and displays a map of the area.  Stiles turns a knob and the radio tunes in, playing some old timey Johnny Cash through tinny speakers.

 _See I told you, aren't you happy you listened to me_?  The voice says and Stiles turns to the dog.  He's radiating smugness, tongue lolling from his mouth.   _Now we won't get lost_.

"Glad to know you think my plunge into insanity is a cause for celebration."  He tells the dog, only for him to head butt Stiles, nudging him back towards the road.

 _Come on, let's get going_.  The dog runs off, stopping just to stare back at Stiles, expecting him to follow.  Stiles rubs at his forehead.  He did not sign up for this, but he walks after the dog nonetheless.  

Maybe it's the radiation getting to him, but he figures, what's the worst that could happen if he listens to the voice?  It's better than having no one to talk to.  He's all alone with only a dog for company in the middle of a nuclear wasteland.  A disembodied voice is better than nothing at all.

 _And stop calling me 'the dog', my name is Derek, use it_.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  "Shut up, Derek."

Cause why the fuck not, right?  He's living in a world where things called 'deathclaws' wander around willy-nilly, he might as well embrace the insanity.

***

"We interrupt this broadcast to bring you news of- Holy shit!"  A loud screeching comes from the Pip-Boy, and Stiles stares down at his arm in shock.  He was walking along the road, minding his own business, listening to some nice classic rock when a man suddenly interrupted the music.  An actual man, not another voice in his head.  Stiles isn't alone.  Except whatever made that screeching noise is probably snacking on the man by now.

"Isn't that just great."  Stiles sighs, and by great, he means not great at all.

"Don't mind me."  The man, who is apparently still alive, pipes in again.  Derek tilts his head as Stiles stops walking to listen better.  "Robot accident."

 _I never liked robots_.  Derek says.

"You're a dog, the only thing you like is your own butt." Stiles replies smarmily, only for Derek to yip at his heels, making him jump a foot in the air.

 _I hate robots, especially the Mister Gutsy line_.  Derek continues as if Stiles never spoke.   _Too trigger happy, plus they have their own rotary saws and flamethrowers, I mean, who designs shit like that?_

The man on the radio clears his throat, "As I was saying, we interrupt this broadcast to bring you news - of a party!  All you wanderers out there, come out to Beacon Hills by noon tomorrow, bring your favourite food and enjoy the smooth tunes and good conversation we'll have laid out for you.  Potluck bitches!  And now, we now return you to your regularly scheduled programming."

The music starts playing again, and Stiles turns to Derek, "What do you say we go meet our neighbours?"

Derek barks an affirmative. _I'm sure I could hunt down a radstag or two, or three_.  Derek's eye glints and Stiles rolls his, sticking his tongue out.

"Show off."

**Author's Note:**

> Apocalyptic potluck, amiright?


End file.
